Moody's End
by Ari Vela
Summary: I never killed anyone I didn't have to. And here I am, the life being squeezed out of me like a old toothpaste tube. Barely useful. Bastards.


**AN: This is supposed to be Moody's dying thoughts after he was attacked in DH moving Harry to safety from the Dursleys. I'm aware that Moody was hit by a Killing Curse, and most likely died before he ever hit the ground, but I thought it could make a poignant moment, so I took some literary license. I hope you can suspend your disbelief briefly for the story. Warning cursing, lots and lots of cursing, follows. Vague descriptions of what falling 1,000 feet would look like also make their way into this oneshot. Not for the squeamish. **

**With all that said, I hope you enjoy. And remember, reviews are love.**

**-Ari**

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><p>I never killed anyone if I could help it. Almost every damn Death Eater I ever threw into that goddamned prison was spared a hit in the face with a Killing Curse. Except Rosier, but that's his fault for trying to be a slippery bastard. I'm not a murderer. A neurotic recluse with a paranoid need to strike first, maybe. But I'm not one of those hooded buggers that get their jollies from the sight of blood. I'm not a fucking sadist.<p>

And for all my nobility and morality, here I am. Lying broken and dying. I don't even know where I am. I can barely tell if I'm even alive at all.

But I must be alive, even if it's only slightly. I can feel every nerve in my body screaming. I can feel the blood flowing out of my protesting veins; I feel shards of bone moving under my skin.

My face feels like it was sawed off with a blunt wand. That flying piece of shit hit me in my already mangled mug. I know I'm not pretty, but damn. I thought this death was supposed to be instant. I should have been dead long before my 1,000-foot fall completed with that sickening crunch that won't leave my vibrating head. This is painful. How am I even still alive?

I never killed anyone I didn't have to. And here I am, the life being squeezed out of me like a old toothpaste tube. Barely useful.

Bastards.

I can hear feet hitting the ground. My impulse to jump into a defensive attack is fettered by broken bones and a disobedient consciousness. I can't move. My brain is screaming at my legs to run and my wand to undulate punishments at my soon-to-be captors, but my bastard body is too busy dying to care what happens. It's a real shame that death isn't as swift as justice. I'd give anything to be numb right now.

They're getting closer. It's a sad irony that I'm this alert while death is beating down my door. I wish I knew what time it was; I could know the exact moment of my perishing. I guess it's supposed to be this way, a soldier dying in battle. I think god is a coward's justification for his sorry actions, but I still can't help but pray or hope or some other bullshit that the boy made it to the safehouse. I can't help but hope that his luck doesn't run out, that he prevails in the end. That poor bastard's got the weight of the world on his young shoulders. It'd be a real shame if he snuffed it. I remember the way Dumbledore talked about him, like he was the last hope of our dying world. History won't remember us if the other side wins. Nobody will know the shit that poor kid has gone through and the fucking _heart _he's got. Nobody will care about my broken body while my life slowly leaks out into this confounded corn field. I might already be dead if the damn soil wasn't so soft. Fucking corn farmers and their fertilizer.

I never told the kid that I had faith in him, that I _believed _in him. I've never been so sure about anything than I was that if the wizarding world had a piss's chance in hell, he'd be the one. I'm sure he hears it all the time. All that "Chosen One" bullshit. I don't give a piss about prophecy or any of that voodoo bullshit. Seers aren't anything but a bunch of scammers with a gift for pointing out the obvious and clouding it with vague claims. It's all a bunch of horse shit, that's what it is. But Potter, that kid had grit. Never flinches when he says the bastard's name. _Voldemort. His name is Voldemort. _

_Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. _Yeah, yeah, Albus, I know, you codger. For fuck's sake, I'm losing my mind now. I wish everything would just go dark. I'm dying here. Literally.

I can feel feet right by my head. They finally found my mangled body. I'm sure they're all fucking thrilled, too. You killed me, you bastards. You win. You've all been waiting fifteen years in Azkaban for this moment. I got all you bastards by myself with skill and perseverance, and you get me with my back turned. I'm better than you and you know it, you slimy maggots.

I think this must be the end coming. And my last sight will be their ugly facing smiling down at me. If there's an afterlife, Dolohov, I'm going to force you to the lowest circle of hell, even if I've got to guard you myself.

You know, despite my paranoia, I really had hope for something better. I really thought we had it in Potter.

In the end, at least I know I died trying. I'll try not to think what these miscreants are going to do with my body.

Bastards.


End file.
